So Spake Simple Simon
Is it right and proper to treat us fools so bad?
We are but simple souls, not completely mad.
This world is but a complex place full of traps and snares
That can catch us all out if we’re taken unawares
Even Kings and courtiers find themselves caught out
So, what chance do we have who know next to nought
We are so often laughed at as we try to understand
Why it is that others have all the wealth and land
And when we ask for twopence for to buy some food
We are told we’re stupid and we’re not doing any good
And when we would go fishing so very far from sea
We practice in a bucket. It made such sense to me
And as for seeking plums for to make some jam
Whilst I was a searching, I was chased by a ram
That landed me in thistles; not pleasant you’ll agree
All that was in the larder was dry bread for my tea.
I could go on for ever about injustice and ill use
How those who care not for others avoid the truth
Who only see the world through their selfish eyes
People who are less fortunate are those they despise.
An old dying king to name successor:
Likely, his first son, a feared oppressor;
Even, the speed of his new kompressor,
Quick prayers to God, The Intercessor,
His name for three full hours Mind Changer.
“Don’t let the king enthrone Long Ranger,
Who has been to us Happy Stranger:
A prince proud to be dog in a manger!
And should Long Ranger emerge the King
In his ears, Russia’s new bullets shall sing.
Courtiers and guards might round him form a ring
But sure he will be collecting the thing!
The King of Mythical Endurance
Ate curry with his gilded spoon
Whilst watching his court dancers
Perform the ceremonies of the moon
Four and twenty picked maidens
Each chosen to his taste
Each full breasted proudly
With an hour glass waist
The King of Mythical Endurance
Dipped a biscuit in his tea
While the dancers of the court
Moved in links of three
Bowing to His Majesty
Bowing to His Queen
Bowing to the courtiers
Making up that palace scene
The King of Mythical Endurance
Barely suppressed his yawn
For night had quickly passed
To fast approaching dawn
Dismissed those assembled
With a gesture of his head
And the master of his chamber
Tucked him tightly up in bed
The King of Mythical Endurance
Slept soundly through the day
While the attendants of his court
Cleared all the mess away
Labouring intensely
Until all was sparkling bright
For the next entertainment
That very same night
The King of Mythical Endurance
Just the latest of that name
Trapped in a life where
Every day was just the same
Bowed to his latest mustress
Bowed to his Royal Wife
And sometimes wondered about
The sheer boredom of his life
He's the King of the goblins and should you displease
He'll pickle your eyebrows and eat them with cheese
Or cut you to pieces then boil your head
And mop up the gravy with slices of bread
But should you avoid this nobles displeasure
He will show you his strong room with all its fine treasure
Then returning above from the dark dungeons gloom
To the marble clad walls of the stately throne room
He will smile to his courtiers and wink with one eye
And you know deep inside that you're certain to die
For no one's allowed to return and proclaim
The things that go on in the goblin kings name
Death in comparison,
a covetous dispatch
Jealousy reflected,
its courtiers attack
An emperor left naked,
his crown a vacant throne
Jesters flee the castle
—as envy sits alone
(Villanova Pennsylvania: December, 2016)
Deifying themselves,
the scientists disprove
with their tools
the existence of God
To sit on a throne
artificially made
the Creator to them
falsely shod
They loudly decry
as their courtiers boast
about how powerful
their laws have become
While built into their structure
a flaw starts to crack
their self-glory
—a darkening sun
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
Oh darling! the summons of the king
have called me to his court.
The king be pleased
if I be scorched.
The torch has mouths to feed.
Esteemed courtiers and the great lords
are in wait for me.
To wanting to witness
stripped naked my bare skin
lit in flames.
I was not convicted
of witchcraft,
nor did I perform black magic
but punished for someone elses' sins,
See my twisted kindness
of this miserable life,
I let myself burn
for the spectators pleasure.
All the dignitaries would talk of me,
about my two minutes of fame.
To be known while I am demanded by name,
walking the line of diction
of my unwritten heroism.
The jester has a foolish air;
he leaps about and juggles fruit.
While wearing motley, hung with bells,
he'll tumble, caper, dance, and sing.
The courtiers are unaware;
behind his act, he's quite astute.
He gathers secrets which he tells
to no one but the reigning king.
Take off your pants
This is no romance.
It’s a stick up.
As Woodie said
They can rob you with a fountain pen
But I don’t your money
And I don’t take prisoners.
What I want to take from you
Is your turn to talk.
You see
This gun which I use in my trade
Is always pressed against my brain.
Its fatal touch
Doesn’t come with bullets
But with my words
That always it their mark
But drift into a deaf wind.
If all my friends learn to listen they’d
Hear
"Je suis avec les paysans car je suis l'un d'entre eux.
Et laisser ma langue devenir une guillotine
Donc je peux couper à travers les absurdités
De tous les courtiers immobiliers
Dont les lignes viennent comme théâtre bon marché.
I want you to
Bury my heart on the Upper West Side.
I want the beat
to
Sing the SRO tenants’
War song.
To drive all landlords back across the Hudson or the L.I.E
And ebb the flow of
Those who are just visiting
And who speak the tongue of their nameless towns."
I once shocked you
by my Queen Maud Fromage poem,
remembering a time
when the good Queen Maud
choked on the heavy stuff.
Her courtiers were
about her suddenly,
and Queen Maud was
thumped on royal back
most thoroughly...
Thoroughly, yes thoroughly...
I have it on good report.
A doctor would not lie to me
about Queen Maud, now,
would he so?
The event put Queen off
the cheese for life
and she forbade it in the larder
or else her staff
taste strife.
---------------------------------------------
10/13/2016
Contest - Give Me Your Best James Tate
Sponsor - Space Cadet
4th place win
A nice young man in a nice crisp blouse is rifling through papers as we speak. Somewhat undisturbed it is imperative that he reaches the halls at the correct time. For all is structured and nothing is made out of toleration born out of stagnation anyway. Under a identified roof a role is preplanned and preordained in a curtain duty. So please don't throw a pan away. Or a kettle into the net on the court. Courtiers are embellishing a primed print. In many a turret. But turrets can eventually topple so don't place the mountainous ironed towels and sheets in a bundle and derive not a shred from a seed. Merely the combination platter from a ambiguous frogspawm. Reduce to a simmer then yawn in a dawn emblematic yarn.like spin. Like sap. Like spit. Xxxxx no ha. Interesting insectivorous institutionalised iguanas. Lovely. Wooden woods weave weather. Xxxxx globalization zzzzzz
Dream of you always
Can’t stop thinking about you
We need to meet soon
Let us explore each other again
Between those fine satin sheets
© Copyright KC.Leake
10th April 2015
All Rights Reserved
January.
I now perform the annual alchemy,
my purpose :
to capture Spanish sunshine in a jar.
Seville :
white fragrant flower to bitter orange sphere.
Childrey :
sugar, water, shredded peel to liquid gold.
Now attend
and carefully stir the boiling cauldron,
Shakespearian
witch-like, the transmutation is complete.
Scottish myth.
Her courtiers cry “Ma’am est malade”, forsooth,
Mair’s headache
cured with orange confiture, a royal preserve.
At breakfast.
The early morning sun aslant the glass,
light shining
through shredded peel makes goldfish in the swim.
Marmalade.
The bitter-sweet tang melds with buttered toast.
Marvellous
flavour. What better way to start the day ?
There is music in her hands;
The graceful gestures of a different time,
Courtly manners and a black lace fan...
A hundred shaded meanings
In my daughter's eyes...
Mysterious, sibilant laughter without mystery
Without guile
Say so many things young and beautiful.
And the dance begins inside her smile
In the middle of her first kiss
That needs no translation...
While the chandelier in a debutante ballroom
Reflects flashes of joy
In a swirl of shining silk
And a trace of elusive perfume
Warming her skin for the first time.
There is such music in her hands;
She is my princess, unawakned
Surrounded by a future beloved,
And dissapointed courtiers...
There is such wonder...
I love you, Daughter Mine.
Even in death let me contemplate you
Where you are in void sockets framed in bone
The brain all dried out, my features unkwown
In life or death before, weighted by you
Even in death, I do not dream of you
As being true, nor sorry that I'm gone
While all your courtiers trample on my throne:
The little world of dreams by which I view
Them as maggots migrating through your pores
And you moaning, a fragment on the shores
Will fill the vacant vortex my soul soars -
From death, for suff'ring love's spite without cures
Cannot suffer yet again your disgiust
When death too becomes tennant of your lust.
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